Page 24 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

“He looks like he wants to take a bite out of you.” Jasmine murmurers as we make our way up the stairs towards the Chessmen.

“I don't doubt he wouldn't.” I murmur, turning to round the table, which to my dismay means I have to walk past the dark gaze of Damien and Isabel’s scowl.

Keeping my head down, I try to slip past Isabel, but a sudden, brutal shove slams into my back. My feet skid out from under me, and I stumble forward. My tray tips violently, sending my food flying. Bright, sticky chili splatters across my cardigan in a scalding mess, the cheesy heat burning against my skin.

I freeze, my heart pounding, as a wave of humiliation and searing anger floods through me, my cheeks burning under the weight of countless stares.

I look up, and there she is—Isabel, standing with a smug expression as she watches the mess spill over my cardigan. “Oops,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Guess I didn’t see you there.”

“Oh yeah!” Jasmine snarls, stepping forward. “And I guess you didn’t see my foot in your ass!”

“What the fuck did you say to me lesbo troll?” Isabel yawns and a rush of anger swims in my veins. Trip me sure, but be disrespectful to my friends, especially my best friend absolutely not, no like hell no. I put a hand out, stopping Jasmine in her tracks before she moves any closer.

Keeping my head held high, I meet Isabel’s smug expression with a sugary-sweet smile, ignoring the sticky mess clinging to my cardigan. “It’s okay, Jasmine,” I say, my tone calm but cutting as I place a firm hand on her arm. “Isabel’s clearly having an off day. Tripping me is one thing, but talking shit about my friend? Now that’s bold.”

Isabel rolls her eyes, her smirk widening as Damien steps out from behind her. His expression is blank, detached, as though this whole scene doesn’t involve him. Vincent, however, is anything but passive. His jaw tightens as he strides toward us, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “Isabel!” he snaps. “What the hell is your problem?”

But I don’t wait for her response. Instead, I unbutton my cardigan, the fabric peeling away from my skin and leaving me naked from the waist up. The cafeteria erupts with wolf whistles and jeering laughs, but I barely flinch. I hold my head high, my gaze unwavering, until Jasmine tugs her hoodie over her head and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say softly, slipping it on and zipping it up. Then I turn back to Isabel, my smile sharpening into a blade. “You know,” I say lightly, “I was chilly anyway. Could you let Damien know he needs to pick warmer clothes next time? It’s freezing out there.”

The cafeteria falls into cheers of approval and I smirk as I turn on my heel. Without sparing another glance at Isabel—or the way Damien’s blank expression twitches into something darker—I walk away, Jasmine right behind me.

The second we’re out of earshot, Jasmine lets out a laugh, slapping me on the back. “Damn, girl! You handled that like a pro. I thought you were about to slap the smug off her face.”

“Nah,” I reply, my lips curving into a small, satisfied smile. “I’ve got bigger plans.”

As if on cue, my phone buzzes twice in quick succession. I glance down to see two messages in theThree King and a Pawngroup chat.

Cast: Naughty girl, pawn.

Vincent: Shit Princess. My house. 8.

8

WILLOW

Without the bells and whistles of the Anything But Clothes (ABC) party, and the intimidation of the bouncer, Vincent’s house is still a massive thing to behold.

The long driveway stretches out before me, the crushed gravel crunching beneath my feet as I walk closer to the massive estate. I would have had Jasmine drop me off closer to the front, but she’ll pick a fight with them— or worse, stick around to watch my humiliation— and if that happens, well I will never be able to look her in the eye again.

In the soft light of the sunset, the mansion screams wealth, power, and control, and yet there’s a coldness to it, like there is no love to be found within the Greek statues and pure white columns.

I can't imagine raising three children in such a perfect but sterile environment. And yet, Vincent lives here with all his vibrant energy and unpredictable behavior - he's not like the others who fit in perfectly with this luxurious lifestyle.

He's flawed and impulsive, unlike Cast, who carefully plans out every move like a calculated machine. Or Damien, who is always looking for the upper hand and never lets me see the emotions underneath.

With them I know that if I was to fall victim to Damon and Cast it was meticulously planned, but with Vincent I know if he hurts me it was by accident.

The fucked up thing is I don’t know which one is worse.

As I approach the massive, golden doors, I feel a pang in my chest, the guilt gnawing at me, even though I try to shove it down.

I have to.

I can't afford to be weak.

Not here, not now.

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